


/the fame monster

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Biting, I'm gay, M/M, Scratching, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-16 06:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Seth's inner vices.





	1. Bad Romance

_**I want your love and I want your revenge** _

 

An odd silence. Bloody hands. A Polaroid picture. A nap. Wake up. A long, long drink. A list.

He isn't sure why he kept these pictures in a stack instead of on a phone. But they look nice nailed to his corkboard, images reaching through the blackness every single time. He hunches over, eyes locked onto himself in the photo. He remembers taking that one. Like a selfie you could print. Magnus had one hand down his pants. They were in an elevator. He forgets where they went, he was too drunk. But he can see the face he made, grin twisted, face red.

Hot nights. Crime. Illegal marijuana. Magnus promising they'd go to the Netherlands.

He falls deeper into his chair, fingers wedged into his boxer shorts, at 2 in the morning with his skin sticking to the pleather. The rush makes his heart flutter, the sickly idea. What the idea is, he isn't sure, but it was absolutely wretched. He swallows, nearly choking on his own spit, groping at his crotch,  _gross, dude!_

Hangover. Nosebleed. Bruises. Strange tattoos. When he grabs you as you try to step out of bed.

Don't go yet.

He was so criminal. When they had a second one-night stand, it wasn't really a one-night stand anymore. More of a two-night stand. They'd already done it before, the first time in an alleyway by a bar when he was down in Florida visiting his brother. Apparently Pickles and Magnus have some sort of beef. They were both drunk and making poor decisions. Seth can't remember much except that it felt good, and it felt even better the second time when he was sober.

A secret visit. Rendezvous. Lying to your brother. 

He isn't filthy enough, apparently. He wants to be stained by it, irreversibly, to the point of no return. He wants to be turned into a crime. A murder scene. Not literal, but it's the only way he could describe it, the feelings he's having, the things he'd die for. Drinks, shallow cuts with a knife, kissing even if his mouth tastes like vomit. He wants to look in those eyes again and see a chalk line drawn around a missing corpse.

His skin feels prickly, like he's a fence where 900 crows are landing, digging in their tiny, blackened claws.

He explodes, leaving sticky regrets on the soft side of his hand. All over a Polaroid picture.

 

**_You and me could write a bad romance_ **


	2. Alejandro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bourgeoisie and cigarettes.

**_Don't wanna kiss, don't wanna touch_ **

 

It was warm. In Australia, it was either scorching, or freezing, with a few moments of acceptable weather sometimes in the dawn. It was half past 5, and the sun was peeking its eyes over the miles and miles of nothing. 

His eyes squinted into the sunlight on his wide open balcony. He still didn't have pants on. Amber was out cold. They fucked to keep appearances, maybe. Maybe they just liked hating each other. She kinda fingered his butt. Shit was good. It didn't go much of anywhere, other than a full night's sleep for once. There's only two things in life that can guarantee a sleep like that: Sex, and melatonin. Also weed, depending on who you are.

"Morning morning."

So she wasn't out cold. She was already lighting a cigarette and joining him, in nothing but a crumpled  _Fight Club_ tee and the underwear she wore yesterday. No bra. Had they been standing on the miniature terrace peeking out of mom's basement, it would be just like old times. 

"Pass me a smoke."

Silent treatment. 

"Amber."

She took a breath, and then replied.

"No."

"You probably have like 8 boxes of those."

"Buy your own."

"You're a bitch."

"No, you." The exhaled smoke directly into his eyes. It stung. It burned.

"You're the worst."

"Go back to bed, it's early."

She lightly kicked him in the shin.

"Hey, that's a criminal offense. 's assault."

"You're a..." She took a moment. Building a sentence. It was better to think before speaking. "You're an assault on my eyes."

"Fine, whatever." He shuffled back through the sliding doors, pausing for a second. "You owe me a smoke though."

"No I don't." She was texting someone. He decided to shut his mouth and crawl back into bed. Soft sheets. It was memory foam, the best Dethklok could afford, wasted all on a bitch and a hound. Somewhere in Australia, there's the nicest doghouse the world had ever seen.

 

_****_ _**Just want one cigarette, hush** _


End file.
